


a philosophy on death

by aces



Category: Stargate SG-1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-02
Updated: 2011-02-02
Packaged: 2017-10-15 07:58:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/158738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aces/pseuds/aces
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I really think that remembering your death is a great big existential no-no of gigantic identity-crisis-inducing proportions."</p>
            </blockquote>





	a philosophy on death

**Author's Note:**

> Written for otter a few years back. Takes place during the middle of the 8th season.

“The thing about death,” Daniel Jackson said with all the consideration of a true philosopher, “—and I think I’m in a reasonably-qualified position to know about this—is that normally you don’t remember anything about it afterward.”

“Yes, you do,” Jack griped, flopping back in his chair by the telescope on top of his house. “You remember lots of pain and loathing for the bastard who put you through it.”

Daniel shook a finger at him, his other fingers and thumb busily holding onto the bottle he'd been nursing all night. “Uh-uh. That’s before you die. The moment of death itself, and the moments right afterward? You never remember them. C’mon. You know you don’t.”

“I think that depends on the death,” Jack’s voice was grim in the darkness as he sat up again to peer at the night sky through the telescope. “You’re not unconscious for all of them.”

“Even for the conscious ones,” Daniel said thoughtfully. “Even for the conscious ones that instant when my life expired I was too busy fighting to notice and therefore—didn’t.”

“I remember every single death Baal put me through.”

Daniel glanced over at him, but Jack’s expression was invisible behind the telescope and Daniel recognized that tone of voice well enough without any visual cues.

“The _only_ death I can remember,” Daniel said, deliberate, “was when I ascended.”

Jack looked up at that.

Daniel looked back, wryly. “Yeah, I know. Funny, isn’t it? I still don’t really remember much about being ascended, but I remember that death, that instant before. It was the most fucking painful moment of my life. I thought I was going to die. I did die.”

Jack sat back again. “Daniel…”

“I don’t think you should remember dying,” Daniel interrupted, but he wasn’t paying any attention to Jack so he probably hadn’t even noticed he was being rude. Instead he looked down at his bottle of beer—three-quarters full—and spoke as casually as ever. “I mean, most people don’t die and come back to life anyway, really, so it’s not a big, universal problem that the New York Times will have to tackle for the good of humanity. But I really think that remembering your death is a great big existential no-no of gigantic identity-crisis-inducing proportions.”

“That’s why they always put you out for operations,” Jack said after a moment.

Daniel blinked at him. “I thought it was because of the pain of somebody opening up and exposing your insides to the outside.”

“Nah, that’s just a cover story,” Jack answered. “They really do it in case you die, so you won’t remember dying later.”

“Even if you stay dead?”

“ _Especially_ if you stay dead,” said Jack. “The doctors don’t want you coming back to haunt their asses.”

“You’re assuming there’s some form of afterlife then,” Daniel responded curiously.

“Assume nothing, plan for anything,” Jack answered. He seemed to have lost interest in the conversation, as he went back to stargazing. “Isn’t that the Boy Scouts motto or something?”

“You tell me, you were the Boy Scout.”

“You expect me to remember that long ago? Hell, I’ve gone and died multiple times since then.”

“Very funny, Jack.”

“Thank you, Daniel, I always aim to be.”


End file.
